


The Golden Apples of the Sun

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universes, M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  Suppose Jim didn't go see a doctor about his wayward senses; just took the afternoon off instead?  And suppose</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Golden Apples of the Sun

## The Golden Apples of the Sun

by JANTIQUE

Pet Fly having abandoned them, Jim and Blair, like Lincoln, now belong to the ages.

Send praise, criticism and dog pictures to the author at Jantique@webtv.net.   
This story is dedicated to the "Enterprise episode "Rogue Planetand I said, "I know how this poem ends!   


This story is the bastard child of "The Sentinel and the poem "The Song of Aengus the Wanderer, by William Butler Yeats. (One site that has the poem and additional information is http://www.taliesin.clara.net/yeats.htm ) The end of this story is pure quotation, with the gender changed.   
Comes just after the opening of "Switchman. Actually, (our) Sir Richard Burton IS the guy who translated the Kama Sutra.   


* * *

**THE GOLDEN APPLES OF THE SUN**

by Jantique 

A fire was in my head. I could see things I shouldn't be able to see, hear things I couldn't possibly hear, smell things I couldn't taste-wait, that wasn't right. Whatever, my senses were screwed. I had definitely developed a migraine-and I've never had migraines. My boss, Simon Banks, said to take the afternoon off and see a doctor. Well, fine, swell idea, but right now, this minute, I was okay. I figured it was like the famous broken toaster. At home, it doesn't work, but as soon as you take it back to the store, and they plug it in, it works just fine. So any doctor would examine me and say that I was working just fine. Screw it. I had a better idea. I still had the afternoon off, right? 

I drove into the mountains, picking the road not taken every time I had a choice, then got out and walked, following a narrow stream that wandered over and through and between the hazel wood, sometimes clogged with dried leaves, occasionally disappearing underground until it popped out again, gurgling like a hungry puppy's stomach. 

It felt better out here-much, much better. It wasn't quiet. The wind was rustling the leaves, water sloshed and splashed in the stream. There were squirrels and chipmunks, sparrows and starlings and raucous crows, and a gazillion different insects I didn't want to try to identify. But no man-made, non-natural noises, no factory machinery or revving motorcycles, no fire engine whistles or police car sirens. Best of all, no human noise: babies crying, people shouting into cell phones, cursing in traffic, talking, chattering, filling the unendurable silence with babble. Blessed silence. The fire in my head died into ashes, there in the hazel wood. It could flare again, I knew that-but for now, I had peace. 

I stopped in a clearing, where the stream deepened and widened, running clear over small rocks. I could see gleaming fish darting through the water, leaving splashes and bubbles behind. The sun glinted low through dappled leaves. I couldn't resist the temptation. 

Using my pocket knife, I cut and stripped a hazel wand, and hooked a berry to a thread. I sat and leaned against an old, solid oak, and waved my makeshift fishing pole toward the brook. I leaned back and closed my eyes, hearing the drone of a bee buzzing past my ear. It was soothing, monotonous.... 

I jerked, startled, at a thrashing sound. A little silver trout was flopping on my line. Damn! How long had I been out this time? Not too long-the sun was just past set. White moths fluttered in the twilight as white stars flickered above them. I pulled in my trout, and started gathering firewood. 

I built a small fire in a clear spot, away from the trees, and knelt to blow it aflame. I heard a murmur, not the brook ... a human voice! I looked around, seeing no one. But I could hear a mellow baritone ... somewhere. I looked down over the valley, finding nothing, finally glimpsing a speck of color on the next ridge over. Blue, brown-brown hair and blue jeans, maybe. I couldn't tell much more. Apparently my eyes weren't coordinating with my ears. The voice came clearer. 

"... a Sentinel, someone with all five senses magnified...." 

I saw a spot of white-my vision suddenly zoomed in-a spray of apple blossom had fallen on his hair. His long, curly hair glimmered in the changing light. I couldn't see his face. 

"--no, not necessarily constant. Burton doesn't say. I mean, they might go in and out, normal most of the time, but seeing farther or hearing better when he needed to. I'm not sure about that. I'm studying...." 

The rich, melodious voice faded out, long after the figure was gone from view in the darkening air. I stood speechless, peering into the gloom, listening for one more whisper. Someone KNEW. Someone knew what wrong with me. What I was, WHO I was. And I will find him. 

No matter how long it takes, how far I need to go, I will find him. He could be a doctor. Maybe I should have kept that appointment after all. I need to find a specialist in this field. If I find one, he could refer me to others, right? I will find him. 

Maybe he's a student. He said, "studying". Lots of schools around here. I'll start with UW-they ought to be able to steer me toward "Sentinel Studies". I will find him. 

He's average height with long, brunet hair. Okay, everyone wears jeans. He hikes. He must have been talking to someone ... I never saw anyone else. He knows-or read?-someone named Burton. Probably not the guy who translated the Kama Sutra, though it's a place to start. 

But I will find him. Like Aengus the Wanderer, I will find out where he has gone, and kiss his lips and take his hands; and walk among long dappled grass, and pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun. 

**FINIS**

* * *

End The Golden Apples of the Sun by JANTIQUE: Jantique@webtv.net

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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